


Gone the Sun

by MDJensen



Series: Safely Rest 'verse/post-finale [1]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Depression, Gen, I remind you that it is the prequel to a semi-happy fic, Illness, Sick Danny, aka Danny's experience while Steve is away, in case that helps, not a happy fic but, prequel to Safely Rest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25207321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: Steve's gone. Danny doesn't take it well.Prequel toSafely Rest.
Series: Safely Rest 'verse/post-finale [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826170
Comments: 61
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: not so much for this chapter, but a heads up that there will be some medical themes in this one. Especially given current events, I know this might be upsetting. Let me know if you'd like a more detailed warning, if you'd feel more comfortable knowing what's included.

He holds it together until he can no longer hear the sound of Steve’s truck; then Danny covers his face and cries. He cries until his body shakes. Until he coughs and chokes and there’s air stuck uncomfortably in his stomach and throat, and even then, he doesn’t stop.

Steve’s gone. He had the right to go— of course he did.

But did it have to be _today_?

Lou comes out at some point. Tries to comfort, and when that fails, tries to empathize. 

When that also fails, Lou leaves.

Adam comes out soon after. He doesn’t try to say anything, just brings Danny a glass of water and stands at his side, squeezing his shoulder in silence. 

Much love to Lou, but that helps a lot more. Danny feels safer with Adam there: safe enough to sob out loud for a bit, and then, when that’s over, ask for help back into the house. Adam carries Danny’s cane under one arm; lets Danny himself cling tightly to the other.

Inside, he settles Danny on the couch, makes sure he’s got his phone and charger, and brings him another glass of water.

Then Adam leaves too.

Steve’s house isn’t empty, though; Eddie curls up with his head on Danny’s lap, and after only a few minutes, Junior plops down on the other side of the couch. He’s crying too, which only makes Danny start up again. But they sit in silence and adhere to Man Code, ignoring one another’s tears.

Tani (Danny presumes) is around, too. He can hear someone puttering in the kitchen, busying themselves with unnecessary chores; his suspicions are confirmed when the woman herself enters. “Anybody want a beer?”

“Yeah.” Junior wipes tears from his face, not hiding the motion but deliberately talking through it. “You want one, sir?” he asks, angling very slightly towards Danny without actually looking.

“Can’t drink,” Danny grunts. 

“Oh, right.”

Tani’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, looking miserable and helpless. “I could do hot chocolate?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Junior sighs. “You know what? I’d rather that.”

“Danny?”

At Tani’s prompting, Danny forces himself to nod; the thought of all that sugar isn’t actually too appealing right now, but something warm to hold in his hands? That’s nice. That’s a nice thought.

A chill runs through him as the thought fades. Absurd— Steve’s house is, as ever, five degrees too warm.

Tani’s back in the kitchen now. In Danny’s peripheral, Junior’s hand darts upwards again; rubbing quickly at his cheeks. Danny wipes his own tears with his t-shirt collar.

His body wants stretching. Gingerly he props his feet on the coffee table, but it’s positioned for Steve’s long legs, and Danny has to nudge it closer by a few inches. When that’s done he settles back, scratches Eddie’s ears.

A few minutes later, Tani’s voice calls Junior into the kitchen; and a minute after that they both return, and Tani hands Danny one of Steve’s many mismatched mugs. She and Junior sit. There’s room enough for all four of them, but Eddie huffs indignantly and jumps down to settle on the floor.

And then, they’re just— sitting. Existing. Now and then there’s a sip, or a sniffle, but these aren’t enough to keep the silence from overwhelming the room.

At some point Tani puts her mug down. This done, she reaches out and takes Danny’s hand in her left and Junior’s in her right; and tugs them both towards the center of the couch.

“Wh’re’you doin’?” Danny slurs, not resisting.

“Cuddling.”

“Why?”

“Because you both obviously need it. But you’re products of toxic masculinity. So you won’t just cuddle each other.”

“Ah.”

Nice as that is of Tani, this is still very much a third wheel situation. Junior sighs, and nuzzles into his girlfriend’s shoulder. Danny? Just sits. The hand-holding is, in fact, nice. But all it does is remind him of Steve, on Valentine’s Day, just a little over a month ago when it seemed like he’d do anything in the world for Danny’s sake. When he’d given up a date so Danny wouldn’t be alone. When he’d ended up squeezed in between his two valentines, cuddling both of them equally. 

All he can think about is the movie ending. And Danny himself playing possum, remaining dead weight against Steve’s shoulder until Brooke had laughed and Steve had told her, voice impossibly soft, that _Danny’s been having a rough go of it lately, sorry, I’m gonna let him sleep_. 

Steve had gotten his Valentine kiss while pinned to the couch by his (not-)unconscious partner. 

He hadn’t seemed to mind.

And whether or not Steve had known, that Danny wasn’t really sleeping, he didn’t call it out. Just hugged him closer, with both arms. Rested his chin in Danny’s hair and sat holding him until, eventually, Danny actually did drift off. 

Danny of now— the Steveless model— thinks a little more about this. Thinks about how Tani probably wouldn’t mind if he put his head on her shoulder, too— probably wouldn’t even mind if he cried into her shirt. 

He settles for holding her hand.

Honestly, after enough time passes, it starts to help, a little.

Danny of now even sleeps a bit— actually sleeps— head lolling against the back of the couch, fingers still woven with Tani’s. Sometime later he blinks awake.

His head has, in fact, made it onto Tani’s shoulder; a glance across to her other side shows a Junior who might have slept as well. They’re all awake now, though. Including Eddie, who is belly-down in the middle of the room, watching the door like he’s expecting his Person to walk back through it at any moment.

Wordlessly, Danny makes himself stand. Cane in hand, he drags himself off Tani, off the couch; takes the mug he doesn’t remember putting down into the kitchen, and nukes it for a minute.

Then he carefully eases himself up, onto the counter. He’s glad Junior and Tani are with him— much better option than being alone— but he’s still going to be on his own for a lot this. The generic grief, he can do in their company. But a little space is required to properly miss Steven McGarrett, his best damn friend, who on countless mornings cooked for him while he sat in this exact spot, swinging his legs, chattering idly.

Dany nurses his rewarmed hot chocolate until it’s gone. Then, before he can decide not to, he tugs his phone from his pocket and sends a quick text:

_Miss you already._

It goes through; he’s not in airplane mode yet.

Still Steve doesn’t reply.

Danny sighs, and eases himself to the floor so slowly and awkwardly that he might be ninety years old. Just, everything hurts. Head, stomach, chest wound— that’s a given— but it’s not all. His hand hurts from gripping the cane. His legs hurt, swollen and crampy from a week of abject indolence. 

His eyes hurt. No big mystery why. His throat hurts for the same reason. 

He leaves the cane propped against the kitchen counter, for no reason other than to be contrary, and makes his slow way back to the living room.

Junior and Tani look up as he enters, but that’s not where Danny’s own focus goes. Eddie is still sprawled, on his side now; still staring at the door with his whole puppy heart in his big brown puppy eyes.

Steve’s been gone before. He’s been gone for days, even weeks at a time.

So why does it seem like Eddie _knows_? Can sense that something is different about this time, even though it’s only been a few hours.

Or maybe Danny’s just fucking projecting.

Maybe both.

In any case he leans down to pet Eddie. His legs won’t crouch, so he just folds at the waist, top half bent over bottom.

Not smart. Hot chocolate and stomach acid creep into his mouth; he jerks upright and swallows against the disconcerting feeling that gravity’s the only thing holding his insides in. 

When the world settles he sees Tani and Junior both on their feet. “Headrush,” Danny gets out; then he gulps again, hard. “No, I’m okay. I’m okay.”

Tani comes over, and takes him by the arm anyway.

“Just,” he stammers, wilting against her, “god, I keep looking at the fucking dog. Dog’s lookin’ at the door, I’m lookin’ at the dog, an’ I just— fuck—”

He wasn’t nauseous before but the aftertaste of the almost-puke turns his stomach so badly that he can feel a retch building at the back of his throat. 

He pulls his arm away from Tani. Hobbles to the bathroom; folds over the sink; and lets the retch happen, though nothing comes up when it does. 

In some strange way it’s almost disappointing. It leaves him with the feeling of something stuck inside him, be it sickness or a scream.

He turns the sink on, but doesn’t touch the water. Just hunches, elbows to the counter, and stares at the column it forms.

“Detective?”

It’s Junior’s voice.

Danny turns the water off. Thinks about bitching that Junior won’t call him by his first name, even in a moment like this; but he doesn’t bother.

“I came to see if you were okay.”

Danny lifts his head, and fixes him with so fierce a scowl that Junior laughs.

“Okay. Uh. I came to see if you— needed help?”

Danny clears his throat, until speech feels possible. “Was I that loud?”

Junior shrugs, but in a way that makes his answer obvious.

Danny snorts, hauls himself upright. “Got it. No. I’m okay.”

“Pain meds always bother my stomach, too,” Junior offers, mildly. It’s a good point; except Danny hasn’t taken the Vicodin since leaving the hospital.

“Yeah. No.” He shrugs, feeling the tightness in the shoulder he does so. “I’m just— man, you ever get, like, just, so twisted up it’s like—”

“Yeah.” Junior smiles. “You prob’ly needed ginger tea, not milk and chocolate syrup.”

“Yeah, well.” Danny sniffles. “Tani Rey’s not someone you say _no_ to, is she?”

“No. No, she’s not. Do you need a hand to walk back?”

“Um. I’m. Gonna sit in here a minute,” Danny replies. He’s pretty sure, by now, that he won’t throw up; but it’s cooler in here, and quiet. And anyway there’s something weirdly safe about a bathroom. It’s the place you’re broken down to your most basic human components— undignified though they may be— and there’s a comfort to that. If he needs water, he’s got water. If he needs to cry again, he’s got toilet paper.

If he does end up needing to puke, hey, he’s got a couple of valid options for where he could do it.

“Can I sit with you?”

It’s not exactly a room designed for two grown men to lounge in; still Danny nods. Lowers himself to the wall, across from the toilet, while Junior shuts the door and sits against it.

It’s maybe a sign of how utterly fucked-up Danny is, that the added claustrophobia of this is just a drop in the bucket.

They don’t talk, at first. Which is fine. He’s not really sure why he let Junior stay anyway, except for the whole misery-loving-company thing.

Not that he’s loving this.

It’s Junior who breaks the silence, closing his eyes at the same time he opens his mouth. “I have to say something. But I don’t know how to say it.”

“Then just say it,” Danny grunts. Junior peels his eyes open.

“I think you and me need to stick together, right now. ‘cause— everyone’s gonna miss him. But I think maybe it’s you and me who—” Junior’s voice cracks. “I just wanted to say that I’m here for you. I wanted you to know that.”

Danny’s clearly supposed to reply.

He doesn’t.

Tears coat Junior’s grimacing face, and drip onto his shirtfront; the region between his nose and upper lip slickens with snot. He’s quiet. But the way his belly hitches, the way he presses a hand to it as though it were an animal needing control, Danny knows it would take almost nothing for him to start bawling aloud.

And Danny almost loses it. Because, seriously? This kid who showed up and forced his way in, like, less than three years ago, thinks that he’s going through the same thing that Danny is? That he’s feeling the same loss as a guy who literally shares a fucking vital organ with Steve McGarrett?

But Danny does not, in fact, lose it.

Junior needs a parent, right now. And it’s maybe only eighteen years of being a father that allows Danny to swallow down his petty anger, look after Junior for a change. Be there for him, even if he hadn’t said it aloud.

No— _especially_ because he hadn’t said it aloud.

Danny crawls forward. Snags a length of toilet paper, hands it off so the kid can clean himself up.

“Thanks,” Junior mutters, thickly. He blows his nose, then, when that uses up the toilet paper, dries his face on the inside of his collar. Danny grunts in reply, then reaches over and pats Junior on the knee. Makes a mental note to give him a hug later, when he’s got the emotional energy to spare. 

He’s not Junior’s commander. And Junior’s not his best friend. 

But maybe they’ll have to learn some new roles, at least for a little while.

Junior’s calmer now, outwardly. His face is flushed and his shirt is damp, but his voice is back to normal. “Am I overreacting? People move all the time.”

“Didn’t even move,” Danny points out. Obviously. They’re sitting in the guy’s downstairs bathroom right now. 

“Yeah, so. So why do I feel like I’m never gonna see him again?” Junior laughs, softly and without a trace of humor. “Why does it feel like that was goodbye for good?”

“It wasn’t.”

“Everybody sure acted like it was.”

“Lemme tell you something, okay?” Junior looks up, meets Danny’s eyes. “Only time it’s goodbye for good is if one of you’s goin’ in the ground. I mean it. He’ll be back. Might take him a month, might take him two years. But he’ll come back. Okay?”

But Danny can tell, from the look in Junior’s eyes, that this sounds as empty as it feels. 

“C’mere,” he grunts.

“Hm?”

“C’mere. Don’t make the old man move, huh?”

Still visibly unsure, Junior comes to sit beside Danny; laughs again when Danny hugs him tightly. (No, he hadn’t accrued any new energy. Just decided this was worth tapping the reserves.)

Junior’s careful. He puts barely any weight against Danny’s torso; but the tears that splatter Danny’s lap say that, for all intents and purposes, the kid is truly leaning on him.

Good. Maybe one of them will come through this intact.

The crying runs its course eventually; then Junior gets them both to their feet. Offers to make Danny that tea, now, but Danny turns it down. He’s tired— beyond tired; he is utterly spent— and instead he has Junior grab his cane from the kitchen and help him to the bottom of the steps.

The kid wants to do more: that much is obvious.

But Danny turns him down again, bids him and Tani goodnight, and makes his way upstairs and down the hallway.

It’s cool and dark in Steve’s bedroom. His bed’s made perfectly, as ever; just hours ago he must have stood here and put it together, as he did every morning. As though later he’d return and climb right in, as he did every night.

But if Danny doesn’t sleep in this bed tonight, nobody’s going to.

Which is as good a reason as any, really.

That, and it just looks so amazingly familiar. Soft.

Safe.

Danny doesn’t change. Doesn’t brush his teeth. Frankly it’s amazing he has the energy to piss and rinse his hands before crawling under the covers.

He forces his body to relax. And for a minute it hurts more than ever; the tension that leaves his muscles burns like hellfire on its way out. But then it’s over. And he’s splayed limply on the mattress, pillows and blankets surrounding him, staring up at the ceiling that Steve stares at as he falls asleep.

And then the real pain begins again.

And Danny curls up on his side and weeps, until Steve’s pillowcase is soaked through with tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, I would finish a chapterfic before letting myself post any of it. HAH.
> 
> Anyway, I can already tell that this is going to be shorter/have shorter chapters than _Safely Rest_. But I hope it will still set the stage for where Danny was coming from during that story.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double medical warning for this one... double because A) medical stuff happens and B) I'm a simple math teacher and cannot in any way guarantee that the medical stuff is accurate 😂

Somewhere between the knocking and the door actually opening, is when Danny finally wakes. He blinks, grunts, tries to focus. His head hurts more than ever and he doesn’t really care who’s waking him, or why. Not even if it’s Steve (not that it will be).

“Danny?”

Okay, fine, he’ll engage. He places the voice without conscious effort, and grunts again. At the very least he’s pleased Junior called him _Danny_ this time; also surprised. But mostly still just irritated. 

“We caught a case,” Junior continues, sounding like he’s only stuck his head into the room. “Don’t worry about Eddie; he’s been out. We’ll have our phones on, if you need us.”

“Don’t die,” Danny mutters. He’s feeling worse, every second he’s awake; therefore he’d very much like to go back to sleep, please. 

Mercifully, Junior leaves, then.

But Danny doesn’t go back to sleep. Now that he’s up, he can’t stop his brain from processing each ache individually, until he’s too fucking miserable to even let his eyes close. Instead he hauls himself upright. Grabs Steve’s pillow and hugs it to his chest; it does little to soothe him, and even less to ground him. His body and his mind feel equally untethered. He’d been sweating in his sleep, and hasn’t stopped; his shirt clings uncomfortably while fresh beads roll down his pulsing temples.

He clutches the pillow and tries to breathe. Tries to force his eyes shut, but his brain has gone on full alert now: he’s worse off than he should be.

Something’s actually wrong.

A wave of heat starts in his stomach and, from there, rolls through the rest of his body, to his toes and fingers and head. It’s followed instantly by a horrible shiver. And it occurs to Danny that he’s nauseous— not sour-stomached with emotion, like yesterday, but actually, legitimately sick. Like. _Get to a toilet right now_ kind of sick. He fumbles out of bed, hobbles into Steve’s en suite bathroom, and crashes to his knees on the tile. 

There’s nothing in there but stomach acid. But this does nothing to decrease the duration or the vigor, as Danny clings to the side of the toilet and vomits: the kind of heaves that start all the way at the base of your spine, that rock your whole body back and forth with sheer exertion. 

When it’s finally over he flushes and lies down, right there. But as compulsively clean as Steve is, there’s still a patch of mildew in the caulk around the toilet; seeing the black spots, six inches from his nose, sets him off again, and he claws his way back up and over the bowl and heaves dryly for a few more minutes.

Jesus. 

He’s so glad he doesn’t throw up often.

And just for the cherry on top, he’s pretty sure he’s got a temperature too; he’s still sweating, slick beneath his arms and behind his knees, but he’s shivering like it’s winter back in Jersey. The puking could have made him feel feverish, sure. But he’d still better check. Not like anybody’s around to feel his forehead. 

Danny hauls himself to his feet. Finds Steve’s thermometer in his medicine cabinet, but by then his legs are shaking so badly that he slams the toilet shut and plops down on the lid. With unsteady fingers he presses the power button and waits for the display to light.

The first attempt at getting the thing under his tongue makes him retch aloud, but he takes a few good breaths and doesn’t get sick again. Manages on the second try. Sits hugging himself, waiting for the beep, wondering what Steve would say about him using his thermometer directly post-puking (but honestly, if he cares so much, he shouldn’t have left).

The beep comes. Danny tugs the thing out and squints to read the number displayed.

102.6. Not much ambiguity there, then. 

This isn’t some ill-timed stomach bug; either he’s got food poisoning (from dry toast and Jell-o?) or the GSW is infected.

So, the GSW is infected. 

Wonderful.

Danny slaps the thermometer down on the sink, and tugs his shirt up with care. And yup. There’s no visible pus but there’s a thick pink streak creeping out from the line of stitches. Like spilled watercolor, he thinks, dizzily. Just to be sure he presses the back of his hand to it and, yeah, the heat coming from the wound is definitely more than the already too-warm skin that surrounds it. 

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Maybe because he _knows_ he’s bad off now, it’s even harder for Danny to stand this time. He clings to the towel rack for support. He’s got no idea where his cane is; can’t even be totally sure it made it upstairs with him last night but it’s definitely not with him in the bathroom in any case.

He lets go of the towel rack, grabs the sink instead.

Sink to doorknob to dresser to nightstand, and finally Danny makes it to the bed. He sobs dryly as he collapses to the mattress. Takes a moment to just appreciate the feeling of relief, for having gotten there; tries to shut away the dread of what will come next. Then, with stilted movements, he reaches out and grabs his phone.

But who the fuck does he call?

Lou is maybe the obvious choice. The only other senior member left on the team (though Danny’s mind wanders just long enough for him to remember that, though Lou might be senior, he’s not _original_. Danny is the only _original_ still around.) But that’s exactly why he can’t call Lou. The team is down Steve and Danny; can’t give up Lou as well.

Rachel, maybe? He could. It’s a completely viable option. But he just doesn’t _want_ to.

Besides, whoever’s coming is just going to take him to the ER, anyway.

So Danny skips the middle man. Closes his eyes and lets his head sway, phone pressed to his cheek, while the line connects.

“Nine-one-one,” the operator responds. “What’s your emergency?”

“I,” Danny croaks, tongue too heavy, “I think I need an ambulance.”

“What’s your location?”

He gives it, and then, when asked for more, spits out, “my name is Detective Daniel Williams. About a week ago, I was shot, I had surgery. I was released a few days ago. I woke up this morning, I’m spiking a fever, I’m very nauseous. There’s a streak coming from the wound.”

It’s enough. Not only does the operator order an ambulance to the house; but speaking a few full sentences rouses Danny back to action. He takes his phone, and shuffles his way downstairs. Finds his keys, and manages to get outside and all the way to the Camaro before he’s forced to bend double, vomiting meagerly onto the pavement.

Fuck, he’s so sick. Like, goddamn. At this point just popping the trunk and grabbing his go-bag is so much of a strain that he sees stars. But once he’s shouldered the bag, there’s another wave of relief. It’s got everything he needs for a hospital stay, and the bus is probably only another minute or two out.

He did it. Didn’t need anyone’s help, in the end.

Danny gets back to the porch, slumps onto the top step; buries his face in his hands and waits. 

He doesn’t open his eyes for the sound of the ambulance’s arrival; but he does for the voice of the EMT who rouses him a moment later with a kindly “so I’m guessing we’re here for you?”

Danny forces his head up, sees a man and a woman before him. He nods.

They introduce themselves. The names don’t stick in Danny’s head.

“Dispatch said you had surgery last week? When were you released?”

It’s the woman who’s speaking, but Danny homes in on the man. He looks vaguely like Will Grover. Not identical, of course, and a few years older— but similar enough that Danny resolves to think of him by Will’s name. It helps, a little.

“Um. Two days ago? Two or three days ago?” Frighteningly, he can’t quite remember.

“Okay. And when did you start feeling like you are now?”

“Maybe yesterday afternoon?” Danny replies, as it occurs to him— yes, for the first time— that maybe part of his misery yesterday was because of the infection brewing. “Had some nausea. Aches. Maybe a low fever, I didn’t check. But it spiked for real this morning.”

“Can I get some vitals for you now?”

“Look, no disrespect,” Danny huffs. “But I know we’re gonna end up goin’, so can we just go? If it’s all the same to you,” he adds, with a smile that turns to a grimace. “Not my first time out.”

As expected, they agree. Slightly less expected is the fact that they let him walk to the ambulance under his own power. Will’s partner carries his go-bag for him. Will lets him balance on his arm, and Danny thinks dizzily of the time Will— the real Will—talked him down from the beginnings of a claustrophobic panic attack.

Holy _fuck_ but he wishes somebody were with him now.

No offense to fake Will and his partner, who are perfectly lovely EMTs. Very accommodating. Probably they should have insisted on taking him on a stretcher, but he really does prefer this—

At least, he does, until the whole world glitches. When Danny’s legs (and brain) start working again he realizes that the EMTs are both holding him upright, one arm apiece. “Sorry,” he croaks. “Fine now. Sorry.”

He’s very obviously not fine. That much is clear. While Will jumps into the driver’s seat, his partner gets Danny settled and takes his vitals. His temp’s over 103 now. Even if some of the jump might come down to different thermometers, his fever is definitely rising. His pulse is high, BP low. And the motion of the ambulance has him heaving dryly into an emesis bag, while Will’s partner, unfazed, gets a line in his left arm and starts a saline drip.

When she’s finished she pats him on the elbow. “Did you call anyone to meet you at the hospital?”

“Yeah, my partner, he’s—”

Danny’s teeth grit of their own accord, and his lungs pull a sharp, sudden breath. “He’s on a case. He’ll meet us there.”

“I thought you looked familiar. You’re Commander McGarrett’s partner, right?”

Part of him wants to laugh because they’re literally recognizable to the island’s first responders; a larger part wants to cry again. For obvious reasons.

Danny settles for grunting in affirmation.

They’re at the hospital only a few minutes later; he’s moved via stretcher this time, and can’t even protest. Doubts his legs would hold him anyway. Inside, he’s left in a waiting area for a while before he’s given a bed, but once this is done, things start to move more quickly.

He gets a second drip, for antibiotics. Another bag of fluids through the first one, when he tells the doctor that he hasn’t peed since last night and, no, doesn’t need to now. He gets a tissue culture. Oxygen support, as his vitals continue to drop.

He’s admitted within two hours. Barely in the room long enough to meet his roommate (a guy about his age with bad kidney stones, who seems so relatively fortunate that Danny hates him instantly) before he’s taken to be prepped for surgical debridement.

It’s probably a bad sign that the _last resort_ is happening first.

He wakes in the recovery room sometime later, with a horribly sore throat and a freshly upset stomach. A nurse checks his vitals, tries to tell him how it went. Not much sticks; just the general idea that the infection was pretty deep, pretty not-very-good.

She realizes quickly that her words aren’t registering. Pats his arm— why is everyone patting him so much lately?— and asks who she can call for him.

“’sokay,” Danny slurs. “M’parnter’s comin’. He’s— we’re Five-0, our cases— hard to get away, sometimes—”

“You should have someone here. Is there anyone else we could call, in the meantime?”

“Family’s all on the mainland,” Danny says, by way of reply. It occurs to him that there’s about ten different people who’d chop his balls off if they heard him say this; but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want anyone else from the team. He doesn’t want Rachel, or Eric. And he doesn’t want Grace or Ma or Bridget spending the money on last-minute plane fare.

He just. Wants. Steve.

And wouldn’t you know? Back in the room, Kidney Stone Guy’s wife is keeping him company now. Holding his hand, keeping his mind off the pain. She smiles at Danny as Danny’s brought in, and he only just manages not to glare in response.

In bed he turns his face to the wall, stares blearily out the window. And for the second day in a row— albeit silently this time— he cries himself to sleep.

*

When Danny wakes it’s black outside. And his entire body _throbs_. It’s not pain, per se; it’s just severe, profound discomfort. _Wrongness_.

He can’t catch his breath. Can’t hold a thought in his head for more than an instant before it warps, like he’s falling back asleep. His shout for help becomes a moan. His plea for Steve becomes a drippy image of the man’s face and a half-memory of feet in the sand, bitter beer, familiar laughter.

He presses the call button. At least he’s pretty sure he does. It’s all he bothers to do before he surrenders, and walks back into that memory.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for medical stuff continues; warning for discussion of suicidal ideation

Later, it will occur to Danny that for the following two days, he is not a participant in his own damn life.

Mostly he sleeps. Once in a while he surfaces just enough to remember that the world exists; but then it’s gone again. He dreams. He doesn’t remember them.

In his moments of mindfulness he knows that somebody is holding his hand; knows it, but can’t really _feel_ it.

*

The first thing that Danny is wholly aware of is his nephew’s face. It’s swimmy; seems distant despite being mere feet away. But he grabs onto it, uses it to pull himself further upward.

“Easy, easy, Uncle D. Easy, hey—”

Danny makes some kind of noise; it’s not exactly words, but it gets his point across. He can’t stop himself squirming, though; every inch of his body tingles.

“You’re okay,” Eric replies, hands on Danny’s forearms now. Trying to settle him. “You’re in the hospital. You’re, uh— the infection went septic. But you’re gonna be okay.”

Is he? Because it sure as hell doesn’t seem that way. His legs feel like they’ve been electrocuted. His guts feel like he ended last night with two bottles of cheap wine. He needs a massage. Needs a glass of ice water and a shot of strong vodka and a cup of peppermint tea— Steve’s favorite when he’s got a bad stomach—

No. Fuck. What he needs is to _focus_.

Danny gets his eyes open all the way, and takes in his nephew’s appearance. Eric’s hair is greasy. The neat edges of his beard and moustache are blurred by stubble, and it’s clear from his eyes that he’s been crying.

“K-kids?” Danny manages.

“They’re fine! At school, like normal. We, uh. Y’know. I guess we told Grace. Me an’ Aunt Rachel. But we didn’t tell her it was— y’know. She’s still at school.”

“Good,” Danny whispers. (And it is; it’s the same decision he himself made when he was shot originally. Grace’s freshman year will _not_ end with an emergency trip home.) “St-teve?”

“Steve?”

“Mm. Where’d’e go?”

“McGarrett?”

“W’s holdin’ my hand,” Danny mumbles, fighting as his eyes try to slip shut again. Between his lashes he sees Eric’s face fall.

“I was holding your hand, Uncle D. It’s— just been me here.”

“Oh,” Danny breathes.

“Yeah. You, uh, you kept tellin’ ‘em you called McGarrett. That he was comin’. But it got to the point they just swiped your phone, called your second ICE contact.”

Danny frowns, tries to piece this all together. “’s Rachel.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks for that, by the way, real ego boost. Anyway. Then she called me. So, here I am.”

“Since when?”

“Um.” Eric’s sitting now, and rocks idly on the edge of the chair. “Day before yesterday. Morningish. I guess you took kind of a turn, your first night.”

Danny glances around, registering more the longer he’s awake. Regards the machine beside him, pulling and refeeding the blood from his arm. “’m on dialysis?”

Eric nods, a little too hard. “It’s helpin’. You’re gettin’ better.”

Mm. Maybe he shouldn’t have made fun of his old roommate’s kidney issues.

Danny clears his throat. Asks the question that he probably shouldn’t, but desperately needs to, ask. “An’ it’s— just been you?”

“Pretty much. Aunt Rachel stopped by, but you were, like, one _hundred_ percent asleep for that. Everybody else on the team has been on this big-ass case, but you should kinda be grateful for that ‘cause otherwise I think they’d come kick your ass. Um. Pop-pop and Nonna were lookin’ at tickets, but I told ‘em to hold off for now. I know you like everyone to save their visits for better times, right? You’ve, you’ve said that before—”

Eric’s definitely just babbling by now, but it's all right. Calming him down gives Danny something to do besides think about the fact that Steve was never actually there. He finds his nephew's hand and squeezes it as best he can. “Take a breath, man.”

“Right.”

“Not doin’ anybody any good for you to freak out.”

“Right,” Eric says again, and takes a (ridiculously exaggerated) gulp of air. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. ‘m gonna be okay.”

Eric nods. Blinks back tears, manages a smile. “You are. Um. Do you want me to— call McGarrett?”

“No! No, Eric, I don’t want you to call him.”

“Okay.”

“He’s gotta do his thing, man. Let’im do his thing.”

“Okay. Um.” Eric sniffs. “I should prob’ly tell Sandy you’re awake. She’s awesome, man, you’re gonna love her—”

“Wait,” Danny croaks, clinging to Eric’s hand even as he gets to his feet. “She’ll come in a minute anyway.” It’s clear by now that he’s in the ICU; the nurses are never gone for long.

“Right, but—”

“Please.” Danny forces a smile. Worms his hand into Eric’s sleeve, wraps his fingers loosely around his wrist. “Don’t leave.”

“Oh, hey. Hey, Uncle D, I’m not goin’ nowhere.” Eric perches on the side of the mattress, taking Danny’s hand in both of his now. “I’m not goin’. Please don’t cry.”

Truthfully he hadn’t even know that he was, until Eric said something; but now that he’s aware he can feel the stinging in his eyes, the itching on his cheeks. Eric’s crying too. And Danny thinks absently of the little kid who used to get in such awful hysterics that he’d give himself nosebleeds.

What a difference thirty years makes. Eric’s a bona fide adult now— what is he, 33? 34? Goddamn old enough for Danny to lean on, in any case.

So he lets it come. It’s hardly his first breakdown over Steve’s departure, but it is the first time he lets himself go _deep_. Like. To the fucking heart of it.

Because there is. There’s a core of this. There’s an underlying horror that he’s always been aware of, that he’s been trying not to poke at.

He told Steve once. Trapped in that fucking basement, a thousand tons of debris bearing down on them, he’d admitted to Steve that the day he married Rachel he knew it wouldn’t last.

But there’s more. There’s more he hadn’t said.

He hadn’t said that the day he first held Grace he knew he wouldn’t get to keep her forever, either. That he’d have to give her away to a career or a spouse or even just life.

He hadn’t said how many times he’s rehearsed his own parents’ funerals.

Hadn’t said that Hawaii had been the perfect excuse to distance himself from the siblings he’d been growing apart from anyway.

He hadn’t said that for the first thirty-odd years of his life, he’d never met a soul that he hadn’t known would leave him.

But Steve?

Steve was supposed to be his to keep.

Danny’s crying so hard now he can barely breathe. Like, legitimate, full-on hysterics. He tries to think through the maelstrom; tries to hate the fact that Eric’s seeing him like this, but he can’t. He can’t hate it; he can’t stop it.

All he can do is let Eric pull him carefully forward. All he can do is give in and collapse against Eric’s shoulder, and cry until he physically can’t any longer.

And even that’s not enough.

He runs out of tears to shed with still plenty of anguish left to feel, so he just screws his face up and stays that way. Eyes shut, teeth clenched. Dragging one hand back and forth across unwashed hair. He holds his breath without meaning to. Once in a while he’s forced to gasp for air; but then he shuts down again. Closes his lungs off.

This goes for so long he gets lightheaded, nauseous. Eric’s not holding him anymore. He’s perched at his side, both hands to his shoulders, and he’s speaking, he’s been speaking for a while, but none of the words get through.

Danny screams. Just cover his face and screams. There’s something wet and hot on his lips and palms but he’s honestly, _honestly_ , not sure if it’s vomit or just saliva.

“I think he’s havin’ a panic attack or something,” he hears Eric say.

That’s not true. That’s not what’s happening. He’s had plenty of panic attacks before, and they’re just that: they’re _panic_. This isn’t. It’s just—

Grief.

But he’ll take the sedation anyway, thanks.

It works fast. Suddenly everything’s too loose for him to screw up his lungs the way he has been, and he surrenders; air flows in and out of him, and the dizziness and queasiness slowly abate.

Eric’s stroking his hair, now. Of course he is. When he was a kid Eric would do anything for that specific type of affection, and not just when he was upset either. Danny’d watched countless movies with his fingers in Eric’s hair, just petting. Soothing. Promising to stay right where he was.

He’s still talking, too. Nothing important; nothing Danny’s got to pay attention to. Just soft words. Empty sounds.

Danny goes back to sleep.

*

The next time he wakes up, he really fucking _wakes up_. The grogginess is gone. The confusion cleared. And he sits forward and cradles his head in his hands, letting go a low moan.

Eric’s voice is nearly timid as he asks, “you with me, Uncle D?”

“With you. With you, part two,” Danny amends, craning his head from side to side until his neck cracks in both directions.

“Are you—?”

“Okay? No. Thanks. Hey, am I, um, NPO? Nothing by mouth,” he clarifies, as Eric frowns lightly.

“Oh. Um. I’ll ask.”

“Just— ask for some ice chips, huh?” Neck taken care of, Danny’s rubbing the crusties from his eyes now. “And if they say no, we’ve got our answer.”

They say yes, apparently, because Eric returns with ice chips a minute later; Danny crunches a few with relish, until a nurse arrives to look him over, and wordlessly admonishes him to let them melt on their own. For once in his life he complies without argument. Lays back and works slowly through the ice as she checks on everything that needs checking, changes everything that needs changing.

Eric, in a rare show of self-awareness, steps out for the catheter stuff. As the nurse leaves he returns, pulls his chair back to Danny’s side and rubs Danny’s free hand in both of his.

“Do you, uh,” Eric begins; then drops it for a full half-minute before trying again. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Danny swallows a final sliver of ice, then slides a fresh chip into his mouth.

“You don’t have to. Obviously. I just— I’m worried about you, man.” Eric scrunches his nose up, like it itches, but he doesn’t cry this time. “I don’t wanna sit here and not do anything if there’s, y’know. If there’s something I could do.”

Danny lets this new chip melt fully, before speaking. “It’s not your job to worry about me.”

Eric grins, raising his head for the first time in a while. “Says who?”

“Says, the rules. Of bein’ an uncle and a nephew.”

Eric rolls his eyes, which, okay, he’s got the right to do. It’s true that Danny’s always tried to look out for him. But being so close in age, and growing up under the same roof, there’s definitely more leeway than there might have been otherwise.

“You’re not actually worried, are you?” Danny prompts, knowing the answer.

“Are you kidding me?” Eric yelps. “Are you kidding me, right now. I’m— worried sick, man.”

“Oh.”

Eric doesn’t continue immediately; instead he seems to take a moment to collect his thoughts. He pulls his hands back, readjusts himself in the chair. Then he sighs.

“When you and Aunt Rachel got divorced. I mean— you didn’t really talk to me about it. Wh’ch’s cool, ‘m not sayin’ you should’ve. I was just a kid.” Another smile, softer this time. “But Matty talked to me a lot. ‘cause he was really worried. I mean. _Really_ worried. I mean. I dunno if you ever noticed, or if he told you later, but, for a couple of weeks there, he’d take your gun overnight. Take it home with him or, if he stayed over, he’d sleep with it under his pillow. Did you know that?”

His nephew pauses then. Eyes him up and down, with compassion but with no attempt at subtlety.

“No,” Danny rasps, when he can. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“Is that prob’ly something he was right to do?”

Danny takes a long, careful breath; then nods.

“If you had your gun now, would I be right to take it?”

“I dunno,” Danny whispers, and it’s the truth. He’d like to say he’d never do that to Grace and Charlie. He’d like to believe that about himself. But, he can’t go on like this much longer. He just can’t. for some fucking reason, even though it’s absolutely, absurdly—

“ _Stupid_ ,” Danny mutters, dragging a hand over his face.

“Why stupid?”

“I dunno. Man has a right to leave, if he wants.”

“You, or—”

“God, no, fuck.” Maybe phrasing that so vaguely wasn’t a smart idea. Eric’s gone pale, and Danny shakes himself and pushes further upright. “Steve. Steve had the right to leave, is what I meant. I’ve got no fucking right to be so upset about it.”

“I mean.” Eric shrugs. “I dunno. Kind of your second divorce, isn’t it? And I think you love McGarrett a lot more than you loved Aunt Rachel. I think you got the right to be upset. I’m just asking—”

“I’m not suicidal, Eric,” Danny sighs. “I promise. I’m sick, and, and depressed, and, I’m not doin’ too good. But I’m not suicidal. I wouldn’t lie about that. And thanks,” he adds. “For the divorce analogy. That’s nice.”

“I wasn’t makin’ fun of you.”

“Sure.”

“No, I just meant, like— I know it hurts. A lot. Seriously, I wasn’t teasin’. I— I know you much you two mean to each other.”

“Right. So. Second time in my life I have utterly failed to matter enough, to a person who matters _unspeakably_ much to me. Awesome.”

Eric turns his gaze down to his lap. “Sorry,” he mumbles, sounding stricken. “Didn’t mean— yeah.”

“Yeah.” The ice is starting to melt now, condensation forming on the outer wall of the thin plastic cup. Danny can’t reach the table. So he just worries the cup in hand, pushing its rim from circle to oval and back again.

“Hey,” he grinds out, after a few minutes of this. “You don’t have to sit here and watch me sulk.”

Eric shakes his head. “Got nowhere else to be.”

“Well. It’s like, noon on a weekday. So you could probably be at work.”

“Eh. I have sick days.”

Danny sighs. Lets his nephew take the cup from his hand, before he can break it; watches him set it on the table, then settle back in his chair. Danny wipes the wetness from his fingers before holding out his hand once more.

“I’m really glad you’re here, E,” he says. Eric’s got his hand now, and he squeezes it firmly. Flashes an open smile that hasn’t changed (well, teeth aside) since he was 6 months old.

“You know it, Uncle D,” Eric replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will never not be mad about how little character development Eric got. Epecially how few non-comic-relief scenes he got with Danny, even though it's clear that Danny was A Major Influence on his life.


	4. Chapter 4

Danny sends Eric home that evening, to shower and sleep. He doesn’t protest, but he does return first thing the next morning— with a bookbag full of road-trip-type entertainment that Danny smiles at but has to turn down. He’s not up for slapjack or Mad Libs. Even if he weren’t too sullen to have any fun with it, he’d been too worn-out anyway.

He’d woken to the chills, and an awful headache. Ironic, really, that his first two days in the hospital he was too sick to know it; and yesterday he was too upset to care. Now he’s alert and (somewhat) mellowed. And for the first time he can feel how unwell he really is.

Eric doesn’t seem to mind the lack of response, though. He sets himself up in a chair at Danny’s side and offers mostly silent company while Danny drifts in and out of feverish sleep. That alone is an immeasurable comfort. It’s not even about the companionship so much as the lack of responsibility; between Eric and the hospital staff, Danny’s not in charge of himself right now. It’s exactly the break he needed.

In that same vein, Danny knows that Eric is talking to the doctors for him; once, sometime in the afternoon, he wakes just in time to see a white coat retreating through the door.

Eric’s expression is neutral. But his knees are bouncing like crazy, and Danny know that the redness in his lower lip is because he’d been biting it.

Not great news, then. He’s selfishly glad he’ll be getting it secondhand.

“What’d they say?”

“Oh, hey, Uncle D. Um. It’s pretty good!” Eric smiles encouragingly. “Yeah, they, uh. They don’t think you needa be in ICU anymore. I guess your blood pressure was, like, scary-shitty up until yesterday. But it’s higher today.”

“It was too _low_?”

“Dude, it was like, so low.”

“First time for everything,” Danny mutters. He thinks about itching his nose, but that seems like an awful lot of effort.

“So. They think the sepsis is comin’ under control. They’re gonna move you to the step-down ward today or tomorrow morning.”

“Then why’re you upset?”

“I’m not upset. It’s good news.”

“You’re upset. Don’t lie to my face.”

Eric sighs. “I guess— I assumed you’d be getting off the dialysis, too.”

“I’m not?”

“No. Your, um— the—” He sighs. “The sepsis definitely hit your kidneys the hardest.”

“Okay. How hard?”

“Hard enough. But hey, Uncle D— dialysis does its fucking job, okay? People can stay on it for ages if they have to. Seriously, we have a guy in the lab— Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, he just goes before work, it’s just a thing he does, y’know? The rest of his life is totally normal, he can wait as long as he needs to, ‘til they find a match—” 

Oh.

Oh, the sepsis hit— _hard_ hard.

“Do,” Danny gets out, then has to swallow. But his throat’s dry as dust, so he coughs. “Do I need a new kidney?” he croaks, when he can. “Hey. Do I?”

Eric’s knees aren’t bouncing anymore. “They’re not sure yet.”

“But there’s a good chance.”

“There’s a pretty good chance.”

“Okay,” Danny mutters. And then— for his sake, or Eric’s, or maybe both— he ends the conversation by pretending to fall back asleep.

That’s just— something he needs a minute to process, okay?

Maybe more than a minute.

Fucking typical assholery of the universe that he got shot in the upper chest and now might need a new kidney.

Maybe he should try to find some amusement in that. But he doesn’t. There’s nothing fucking funny about fucking organ transplantation.

It’s been four years. But even all that time— and all that Vicodin he was on, then— could never be enough to bury those memories, clearer today than ever:

Steve, in a bed just like this one.

Steve, sick as a dog from the immunosuppressants, violently puking up anything more adventurous than a sip of water.

Hoarse, painful retches. Basins full of undigested broth and Jell-O.

And Kono, rubbing Steve’s back, because Danny was too weak to offer even that tiny comfort.

God, he’d been so weak. Weak and dizzy and distraught beyond articulation; and he’d been the healthy one in their hospital room. He’d been the one with near-perfect odds of a full recovery. Steve’s odds— well. They’d been less so. Hence why Danny’s clearest memory of all is of Chin, holding him, as he cried his eyes out over pamphlets about the survival rates of organ recipients.

Steve took it (mostly) with optimism, of course. He’d rather feel like crap, if it meant being alive to feel anything at all.

Goddamn, Danny himself could use a few words of that optimism now.

But even the fear of being Maybe Really Sick, and the loneliness of going through it without his best friend beside him, aren’t enough to keep Danny awake for long.

Somewhere in the middle of pretending to sleep, he actually does.

*

When Danny wakes again, the headache has tempered but spread, a whole-body discomfort now. He squirms, tries to find a better position, but it’s no use.

A nurse comes by a few minutes later. She tells him directly about moving out of ICU, but she doesn’t mention the kidney. Maybe he’s too sick to be told.

“It’s good news, Uncle D,” Eric enthuses; he glances at the nurse, conspicuously trying to get her to agree.

She does so, with a smile. “It absolutely is. Trust me, the less days on this floor, the better.”

“One step closer to home, huh?”

Danny gets the sense that they’re both waiting for some sort of reaction from him as well; and frankly he shouldn’t have to humor either of them, but he does anyway. “Home will be good. Step-down sounds… good.” He forces a nod.

The nurse has finished adjusting something, and she glances up at Eric with obvious fondness. “Just a heads-up, though: they’re a lot stricter about visiting hours down there.”

“Ah.” Eric ducks his head. “Yeah. I’m kinda actually out of sick days after today, anyway. So. I mean, ‘ve been readin’ up on FMLA! But—”

“Don’t,” Danny insists, patting Eric on the knee. “I’m serious, kid. Go back to work.”

“I’ll come at night.”

“I know you will.” Danny clears his throat, coaxes himself to smile. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

If he’s healthy enough to get out of ICU, he’s healthy enough to be left alone, right?

Even if it 100% does not feel that way.

*

But when Danny’s moved the next morning, he does not end up alone. He has a roommate again: this time it’s an old guy named Fred who, until as recently as a week ago, was probably going to die. The fact that he didn’t makes him cheerful, and chatty. But Danny doesn’t mind as much as he might have otherwise; Fred’s a retired firefighter, and he lived on the east coast for a while, so they have plenty to talk about.

And besides, he needs conversation. Needs it maybe just as much as he needs any of the other treatments he’s being given. He’s not typically one to make friends quickly. But shooting the shit with Fred comes more easily than anything else in recent days, and as the time passes, Danny actually starts to feel better.

The evenings are the best. Fred’s granddaughter visits, and she and Eric flirt up a storm; Danny and Fred amuse themselves by teasing the pair silently when they’re not looking. The group of them forge an odd little comradeship. Fred’s allowed to walk, so they all crowd around Danny’s bed and pass the hours playing Go Fish and Canasta.

Then the fourth morning, Fred’s discharged. It’s good news, obviously, and the fact that his bed remains empty would usually be good news too.

Danny can’t make himself take it that way.

*

The next day, his tenth in the hospital, Danny’s moved too; not discharged directly like Fred was, but put back on the general-care floor. He’s more or less just being monitored, now.

The possible crisis of his kidneys passed much more quietly than expected— as crises _occasionally_ do. He’s been off dialysis for two days now, and his kidneys are holding their own. So, he’s not dying. He’s not even very seriously ill anymore; yeah, he’ll probably still be on medical leave another few weeks at least, but he’s now expected to make a full recovery.

And he’s happy about that.

He might not have it in him to be _ecstatic_ , but at the very least he’s grateful.

Or grateful-ish, anyway.

He okays all pending visit requests, now that he’s just routinely miserable as opposed to despondent. And suddenly his room is flooded. Lou and Adam come immediately, and don’t leave for ages; Quinn doesn’t stay that long, but she does bring chocolates and flowers. Tani’s caught some bug. She and Junior stay away, so as not to spread it, but they send videos of Eddie doing dog-things, which actually manage to make Danny smile once or twice.

The next day Rachel brings Charlie. Danny pulls him into his lap and hugs him to his chest for the entire visit; and when they leave he hugs his own knees instead, and cries for what feels like hours.

He’s discharged from the hospital in the afternoon of his twelfth day. Eric wisely does not challenge his uncle’s request that he be driven back to Steve’s house; just takes him there, sets him up on the couch. Makes him French toast for dinner. Junior, likewise, does not challenge Danny’s request that Eddie be brought back home, instead of staying with him at Tani’s.

He’s home. He’s officially survived: not only the GSW, but the infection and the sepsis and the (almost) kidney failure that followed.

Now he’s just got to survive everything else.

*

May arrives. Danny welcomes it. April left a horrible taste in his mouth; besides which, May means colleges will be ending. Knowing Grace will be home soon helps more than a little. So, all in all, Danny’s doing— okay.

Still, nobody could accuse him of doing _well_. He’s a sullen, miserable mess: skipping meals, losing sleep, crying more days than he doesn’t. Looking after Eddie is maybe the only thing that keeps him sane.

Not that he doesn’t have human company, too. Eric comes over a few times a week; he brings groceries, takes out the trash. The others visit too. Junior and Tani drop by, in short but frequent intervals; Adam makes him dinner on the weekends. Lou comes by for movie nights. Even Noelani stops over once, with homemade oatmeal cookies.

It’s nice.

He appreciates it.

He does his best to say as much.

But all of it crumbles under the overwhelming truth that the extent of his communication with his partner, his best friend, his goddamn platonic _soulmate_ — is a text every few days. If that.

_Hi, I’m alive, hope you are too._

_Look! I’m in Prague!_

_Look! I ate a big pretzel!_

Okay, the texts aren’t quite that callous; but they are that short, and that unrevealing. Minutia, followed by a quick declaration of _miss you, Danno_. But that’s all he gets.

Until Danny wakes one morning to the sound of his ringtone.

He snorts awake, fumbles through Steve’s covers to retrieve his phone. Opens one bleary eye to check the caller ID— and feels his heart skip a beat as he sees whose picture has lit up his screen.

He swipes to answer, holds the phone to his cheek.

“What, uh.” Danny clears his throat. “What did I do to deserve the honor of an actual phone call?”

“Um. You were born?” Steve laughs. “Happy birthday, Danny.”

The urge to cry comes on so strong and so sudden that he can barely resist it. “Right,” Danny chokes.

“Did I wake you up? Man, I gave you ‘til eight. You know I’m twelve hours ahead, right? I’ve been waiting all day to call you.”

“Yeah. No. You didn’t wake me up. But I’m— I’m still in bed.”

“Take the day off?”

“Yeah,” Danny replies, truthfully. He’s been working a little— shortened hours, and HQ work only— but Lou hadn’t questioned it when he’d decided to take off the whole of today. Hadn’t even mentioned the significance (though maybe he just hadn’t remembered).

“Any good plans?” Steve prompts.

“Day drink.” And okay, that’s a lie; he’s still on too many meds. “Think about mortality.”

(Now, _that’s_ the truth, again.)

Steve laughs; it ends in a happy-sounding sigh. “I miss you, buddy.”

“You too,” Danny grunts, curling up on his side. “Where, uh. Where are you?”

“Switzerland. Uh, city called Lucerne; not too far from Zurich.”

“’sit nice?”

“It’s gorgeous,” Steve replies. “’m staying in a hostel, actually, right on this big, this giant lake. Been swimming every day.”

At some point in the last thirty seconds, Danny’s officially lost the fight against crying. He pulls the phone away, briefly, to mop his cheeks. “Sounds like a good place,” he grinds out. “Eat some fondue for me, okay?”

“How ‘bout you? You doin’ okay, buddy?”

“Fine. ‘m sleepin’ in your bed.”

“Bro, what is it with you sleeping in other people’s beds?”

Oh, right. Because for a month or two there, he’d been sleeping in Junior’s.

But that had been a matter of convenience. This is a matter of— not that.

“Is Grace home for the summer yet?” Steve asks, when Danny doesn’t answer that other question. Danny sniffles, without bothering to pull the phone away this time.

“No. Finals’re over but she and a couple friends drove up to San Francisco. Stayin’ with one girl’s parents. She’ll be home next week.”

“That’s awesome. She’ll love California.”

“Mm.”

“Man, I’ve got so many souvenirs for her. Some great stuff for Charlie, too. How’s he doin’?”

“He’s fine. Um. I’m not—” Danny swallows, hard. “I’m not feelin’ so hot right now, Steve.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just a headache. But I think I might go back to sleep for a lil’ while.”

“Oh. Yeah, man, I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“You didn’t,” Danny snaps. “I already told you that you didn’t.”

“Right.” Steve’s bubble has been audibly burst now, and Danny can’t make himself feel guilty about it. “All right. I’ll let you sleep. I just wanted to say it in more than a text, y’know?”

“Yeah.”

“Happy birthday, Danny. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye,” Danny grunts; and ends the call. Rolls onto his back, then pushes himself upright.

“Eddie?” he calls, scrubbing both hands to his face now. “ _Eddie_?”

There’s the familiar sound of paws up the stairs; then Eddie pushes his way into the room and promptly leaps onto the bed.

Danny motions him into his lap. Wraps both arms around him, buries his face in the thick fur, and hugs the dog as long as he’ll allow it.

*

There’s no single day his chest stops hurting; but there is the first day that he works a full shift. Likewise there’s no day that the depression simply ends. But there is the first day he goes for drinks with the team, and the first day he takes Eddie to the dog park, the first day he actually enjoys his evening Netflix instead of just putting it on to kill the silence.

To make things better, Grace finally comes home. His little girl— a college _sophomore_ now— still finds the time to come over for hours at a time, often bringing her brother along.

He’s still surviving.

And maybe his Person is gone; but like Eric said, that’s happened before. He’s survived this sort of thing already.

And then, one Sunday afternoon, his phone rings again; Steve’s face, contorted in an absurd arched-eyebrow expression, fills his screen.

For a second Danny can only stare. It took a month and a half for the first call; and that’s only because it was his birthday. Now, mere weeks later, he’s getting another?

Danny clears his throat before answering. “What the fuck time is it there?” he grunts, instead of _hello_.

“It’s late.” He can hear Steve smiling. “But, I’m above the Arctic circle. So. Midnight sun.”

“Where are you?”

“Tromsø. Uh, Norway.”

“Say hi to ABBA for me.”

“That’s Sweden, Dan.” Now Steve sounds like he’s stretching, and Danny briefly considers doing the same. He doesn’t.

“Ah.”

“I was gonna take more time in, like, central Europe. But it was feelin’ a little crowded. So I hopped a plane north. Got in a few days ago.”

“Nice there?”

“It’s gorgeous,” Steve sighs. “This midnight sun is somethin’ else; it’s the most amazing thing, man. And all these hiking paths! I’ll go for hours, won’t realize it’s already like, two in the morning. It’s not like daylight, right, but it’s absolutely enough to see by. Like dawn I guess. But it’s that way for hours. It’s— it’s just beyond words, Danny.”

“You realize if there’s twenty-four hours of light, y’know, on the other side of the year— ‘s twenty four hours of dark.”

There’s half a beat of silence before Steve replies. When he does there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. “Yeah. I know.”

No, not an edge. It’s a sadness, to be honest, and god forgive him but that makes Danny feel a little better.

“Anyway,” Steve continues, in this newly fragile tone. “I saw a reindeer.”

“Nice.”

“Hey. I miss you.”

“Mm-hm.”

Danny has the impression that his (non-)reply hurts his friend even more than he meant it to.

Maybe as penance, he tries to picture the guy. Sees him all alone, maybe upset now; hiking the Scandinavian forests, beneath a sun that won’t set. That tricks him into thinking he still has more time.

Danny wonders if he’s dressed warmly enough.

He wonders how long his trek back will be, when he finally decides to turn around.

Suddenly he’s acutely aware of how very far away from Steve actually is. This whole time he’d just been thinking of him as _not here_. He wonders if this is the farthest apart they’ve ever been from each other, since meeting. Maybe. Not sure. Geography has never been his strong suite. There have probably been some places that were farther from Hawaii than Norway. But, in most of those cases, Danny was already on a plane, closing that gap.

Fuck. He’s not going to do this. He’s not going to do this to his best fucking friend. Their last phone call _sucked_ and that was entirely his own fault; this one is going to go better.

He’ll make it go better.

“Sorry,” Danny mumbles. “’m in a shitty mood. But I miss you too, don’t think I don’t.”

Steve makes a noise that isn’t quite a sigh. “It’s okay. Are you okay?”

“Long week. Nothing terrible.”

“Everything all right?”

“Everything’s good. I’m just— grumpy.”

“So nothing’s changed, then?”

“Fuck you,” Danny replies; but he stuffs his voice so full of affection that even Steve couldn’t manage to mistake it. It seems to work, because Steve laughs softly.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey, what?”

“I was thinking about what you said.”

“I’ve said a lot of things.”

“About— New Jersey?”

Danny’s heart trips up.

“I feel like I might wanna come back stateside, soon,” Steve continues, oblivious. “I’m not— I’m not ready to go home. But, I’m headed to London in the morning. And there’s some really cheap flights to Newark from Heathrow, and it just— it sorta works out.”

“Okay. Nice.”

“Would you wanna meet me there?”

“Jesus Christ,” Danny grunts, before he can stop himself.

“Is that a—”

“Yes,” Danny breathes, scrubbing at his forehead. “Yes, that’s a yes. Fuck. Just, uh, text me the flight info, once you’re booked. I’ll probably aim to get there a few days before you, spend some time with my folks.”

“I was thinking— Thursday, probably?”

It’s Sunday now.

“Well. I guess I’m gonna hang up and go look at flights,” Danny laughs. There’s something in his chest that hasn’t been there for a long, damn time; he doesn’t bother naming it, but it feels incredible. “Steve.”

“Mm?”

“It’s gonna be really good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too, buddy,” Steve replies; his own voice is thick, like he might be verging on tears.

“Less than a week, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve whispers. And, okay. Definitely crying now, or really close to it. Danny closes his eyes; wishes desperately to reach out, reach across the globe, and wrap his best friend up in the biggest bear hug he can manage. On the other end of the call, Steve sniffles softly.

“You want me to call you back when I’m done booking?” Danny offers, after a moment’s pause.

“Nah. I— should start back. Just text me, all right?”

“I will.”

“’kay.”

“Hey,” Danny murmurs. “I’ll see you soon, Steve.”

“Right.”

“You gonna be okay until then?” Suddenly it seems like the answer might be _no_.

“I’m fine, man. I’m just—” Steve cuts out, and Danny imagines him rubbing a hand to his brow. “I’m goin’ through something,” he finishes.

There’s a trace of confusion, and confession, as though this hadn’t been an established truth for months now.

“I know,” Danny promises, softening his own words as much as he can. “I know that. Hey, I’m gonna book right now. Four days from now I’m gonna pick you up at Newark airport, and take you for some real pizza. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Four days. We’ve made it this long, we can make it four more days.”

There’s a soft, ragged noise; maybe a laugh, maybe a sob. “Yeah, we can. Bye, Danny.”

“Seeya soon, babe,” Danny whispers. His screen goes dark as the call ends.

It stays that way only for an instant, before he’s opening his browser, looking up flights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL I was so proud of myself for finishing this one so much faster than the original... then I realized just how much shorter it is. Oh well. Thanks as always for your lovely comments and encouragements. Might do one or two oneshots now, but I plan to start posting the third in this triology (sequel to _Safely Rest_ ) quite soon 😁


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